The Land Of The Dead
The cold dead wind saunters in this bleak land
by Warrith Olawale
Where i dwell breathing inert air
Ears-fed by the tremulous voices of the dead, their tremulous hands
In gloves of numbness serene with the soil's care
Grip my hands, communicating coldness
The land of the dead, the land of rest,
Filled with tales of grief and sorrow.
The bones decaying in this soil have undergone the test
Of life's diminuendo, of the gaping burrow;
Some died and died, some died and rose again.
Some died and died,
Now they are wrapped in the earth's shawl.
In their pity, the living sands above them have cried;
And on the walls of their paralyzed heart, they scrawl
Words of sorrow, alphabets of penitence.
Others died and rose again
Like weeds, after bush clearing in the farm
Patiently growing again despite the pain
Like liberated trees unafraid of harm.
Their immortal minds have sailed through the tide of death.
On the shaky frontier of life, here i stand, on the borders of death
Come fondle me, living winds conveying life and strength
And i will come out of this land, alive with living bones,
Before the fire of life on its candle, gently burning
Is killed by the dews of the morning.